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Sky Breaths
You used to be living,
breathing
vividly on gray morns
catching butterflies between your wavering breaths
and aligning them with the sunrise.
The day used to be cynical
as you,
weaving suntinted skylines
ridden by sunbirds
bearing fresh tunes in their throats;
It wouldn't hurt a weary
traveler
to stop and squint
at skies so saturated
he'd trade them
for the concrete streets
he called home.
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